


Fancy Dress

by dcfg21



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dominance, Established Relationship, M/M, Military Fetish, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Est. John!lock invited to Molly's fancy dress party. See what happens when they get all dressed up. Rated M for future slashy/smutty goodness. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fancy Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I am having a great deal of fun with this. Fanfic is new to me and I've only written a few. Please let me know if you like what I'm doing and check out my other stories. Reviews are love, people. Almost as good as cupcakes.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Sherlock-"

"No, John. Under no circumstances. Not if you set me on fire and threatened to have Anderson spit on me to extinguish the blaze. Not-"

"Sherlock, you're being ridic-"

"-if it were the only way to save one hundred doe-eyed children clutching kittens to their collective bosom. No. I will not, I repeat, not wear that."

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock. It's only a costume."

"That," Sherlock sniffed, "is not a costume. It is a polyester abomination of the first order. And I will not allow it to touch my person. Take it back."

"You're impossible!" John spluttered.

"Irrelevant. And despite your adorable utterances to the contrary, I'm still not wearing it."

"It's a fancy dress party, Sherlock! You have to wear a costume!"

"Well, what are you wearing?"

John produced the costume from the garment bag and frowned at Sherlock's snort of disgust.

"You can't be serious! You're going to parade around in that? And the hat, John! Dear God, it's an affront to polite society!"

John groaned. "It's a costume, Sherlock! Polite society has no bearing-"

"No bearing? You want us to traipse around London dressed at the Mad Hatter and the March Hare?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you ill, John? Or worse, are you high? Because for you to entertain the notion that I would voluntarily-"

"You're making a fuss over nothing, Sherlock." John's fists began to clench and unclench in an unconscious gesture of anxiety. "And Mycroft and Lestrade are going as Tweedledee and Tweedledum. I thought we could blend."

Sherlock barked out a hard laugh. "Mycroft and Les-? That is just disturbing." His eyebrow twitched. "Yet oddly appropriate. But, no. I am not wearing a," he ground out the words, "bunny suit."

"The March Hare, Sherlock. Not a bunny. For chrissakes, I'm not asking you to hop around and pass out chocolate eggs!"

"You've got a better shot at getting me to do that than wear this horrific thing." He fingered the material. "Oh, God, John, it smells like mothballs and liniment!" He shook his head vigorously. "No. Never." He frowned pointedly at John. "Over my dead body."

"Then I'll have to kill you," John shot back, irritated. "But it'll be a bitch dragging your corpse on the Tube."

"Why this, John? Why must you do this to me?" Sherlock whined. "Didn't I wear those ridiculous boxers with the hearts all over them that you bought me for Valentine's Day?"

"You did," John nodded.

"Without complaint, John! Without. Complaint." The consulting detective said through gritted teeth.

"There wasn't much to complain about if I remember correctly," John insinuated with a smile.

"Yes, well." Sherlock flounced onto the sofa with a petulant huff. "Why did I agree to this nonsense in the first place?"

John's smiled turned devilish. "Because you'll agree to almost anything when I have my mouth wrapped around your-"

"Yes, yes," he snapped, sitting up, waving long arms into the air. "I am well aware of the damned persuasive abilities your mouth seems to possess." He pursed his lips in annoyance. "And your penchant for exploiting me in the throes of passion."

"Throes of passion?" John laughed. "It was last Tuesday in a storage closet at the Yard! Hardly a romantic assignation. And you were the one who started it, don't you forget! One minute I'm discussing blood spatter with Lestrade, and the next thing I know, you've got me in a dark room with my trousers around my ankles humming the first verse to 'God Save the Queen' on my-"

"Still irrelevant, John!" Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him. His mouth quirked into a grin. "And we both know how patriotic you are."

John flushed. "All right, I suppose it was unfair of me to turn the tables on you, but I knew you would never agree otherwise. And besides, this means a lot to Molly. She's been so excited about throwing this party."

Sherlock huffed.

"Won't you even consider it? Please?" John shook the bag at him. "Please? It will be fun."

"Fun," Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. "God save me from fun." He groused for a moment then opened one eye. "Fine. But, I'm not wearing that and you're not going as the blasted Hatter."

"What do you suggest, then, if you've made up your mind?" John sighed.

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Thinking, John. I'm thinking."

John rolled his eyes and set the bag aside. "Christ, we'll be here 'til Christmas."

"Don't get snippy."

"It's not being snippy if it's the truth. Seriously, Sherlock, if you want to forgo the Alice theme, then what did you have in mind?"

The consulting detective thought for a moment more, then rushed past John and bounded up the stairs.

"Where are you going?" John called.

"To see what else lurks in your closet besides an obscene amount of jumpers!" he yelled back.

"Obscene?" John started after him.

"Yes, John, obscene," Sherlock said, rifling through the closet. "While I applaud your support of the obviously thriving wool industry, you have to admit, you own more jumpers than any man in the country."

John huffed loudly.

"Don't get me wrong. It's one of the most endearing things about you, actually. You have the uncanny ability to turn an ordinary jumper into something extraordinary by merely donning it upon your person. In fact," he murmured, "the more hideous the jumper, the more I want to shag you blind."

John stared back at him, mouth agape. "How do I even respond to that? Should I be flattered or insulted?"

"Flattered, John, of course. The sight of you in cable-knit does shocking things to my libido." More clothes hit the floor. "Bloody shocking things."

"Uh-huh. Why do I not feel flattered?"

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed. "This." He pulled a garment from the closet. "You should wear this."

"Sherlock, that's my dress uniform. It's ceremonial. For, you know, ceremonies."

"It's perfect!" Sherlock turned to face John with a bright smile. His smile quickly faded at John's drawn up expression. "What?"

"I was sort of saving that."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Saving it? For what?"

John began to stare at an invisible spot on the floor, scuffing it with the toe of his trainer. "Something, I don't know, special."

"Special?" Sherlock blinked rapidly. "I'm confused. How is getting me to parade around in costume in public not special?"

More scuffing. "It's just…I was just-"

"Yes, just what?"

John threw his hands up in consternation. "I don't know, Sherlock I was just-" John's voice went low," -thinking to save that for our civil ceremony. You know, whenever we got around to getting married."

"Married?" The pieces fell together. "Oh. Special. Right." Sherlock laid the uniform on the bed and reached for John, putting his arms around the doctor's waist, pulling him close. John returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. He let out a soft, contented sigh and dropped a kiss on John's head. "Oh, John. You should know that it doesn't matter to me at all what you wear to that." He drew back and looked into John's eyes. The concern on John's face tugged at his heart, the doctor's concern palpable in his gaze. "It's sweet that you think of things like that, but I would have you no matter what you were wearing. You're my John." Sherlock's mouth turned up in a slow smile. "You could wear a burlap sack and I would still marry you."

"I know, but-"

Sherlock hugged him again. "Fine. Wear it to our ceremony, if it means that much to you. But, wear it to the party, too. I would love to see you in it." He smiled into John's hair. "Please?"

"Damn you," John murmured against his chest. "You know when you say 'please', it's my undoing."

Sherlock chuckled. "'Please' isn't the only thing. Ow! No poking!"

"Then stop being insufferable, you twit." John stepped back and frowned. "I just thought-"

"I know what you thought. It's sweet, but unnecessary. Really."

"Fine," John sighed. "Although I'm not entirely sure that dressing up as an Army captain is a stretch for me."

"Bollocks. You'll look fantastic."

"And what will you be then, while I'm looking so damned fantastic in a suit I haven't worn in ages?"

"Good question." Sherlock returned to the closet, this time concentrating on his side. "Here," he said, pulling out an expensively tailored tuxedo. "I'll wear this."

"A tuxedo? Really? You're going to hurt yourself thinking outside of the box like that."

"Shush," Sherlock admonished. "It's perfect. I'll go as James Bond, the leaner, more Connery version, not like that swarthy Craig brute, and I'll spend the evening looking posh and formidable while swilling back vodka martinis like nobody's business."

"Vodka martinis aside, how is that any different from your normal appearance?"

"John, you wound me," Sherlock scoffed. "Just think, I'll get nice and pissed and let you take advantage of me on the way home. It may be the only way I will survive this whole horrendous ordeal."

"I will admit, that idea has merit," John smiled, "but I hope you have another tux, because I refuse to let you wear that one."

"Of course I do, but what's wrong with this one?"

John flipped back the front of the jacket, exposing the label. "That's why."

Westwood.

Sherlock's face scrunched in dismay. "I see your point." He slung the garment over his arm and pulled another from the closet for John's approval. "Ralph Lauren?"

John nodded.

"Fine. We will," his eyes flicked down to his arm. "We will burn this one in effigy."

"Whatever."

"Excellent!" Sherlock shouted as he raced downstairs.

John's eyes widened. "No, Sherlock! Not in here! NOT IN THE SITTING ROOM!"


	2. Fancy Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Have been supremely excited at the positive reviews I've received. Keep them coming, and I promise, my lovelies, I will keep writing. As always, please review, good or bad. Reviews are love wrapped in cupcakes.

TWO DAYS LATER

WHERE ARE YOU? - SH

STILL AT THE SURGERY. COULDN'T BE HELPED. - JW

IT'S 45 MINUTES AFTER YOUR SHIFT - SH

12 YR. OLD. BROKEN ARM. - JW

SEND THEM TO THE A&E. - SH

MINOR BREAK. JUST SET THE PLASTER. - JW

FOR GOD'S SAKE, HURRY. I'M DYING OF BOREDOM. - SH

TALK TO MYCROFT. - JW

AND HASTEN MY DEMISE? NO. HURRY. - SH

HAVE ANOTHER MARTINI AND BE NICE. - JW

"Is John on his way?" Mycroft asked over his shoulder as Sherlock tucked the mobile away.

"Yes," the consulting detective replied. "He was detained. Something about a broken arm."

"That's John," Mycroft intoned lightly. "A slave to the Hippocratic oath."

"Yes. Noble," Sherlock ground out. "And can you step back please? I'm concerned that at any moment that ridiculous beanie on your head is going to take flight and slit my throat with that damned propeller."

Mycroft chuckled, his face breaking into an uncharacteristic smile. "Concerned, Sherlock?"

"More like wishful thinking," he murmured. "Where is John?" he hissed under his breath.

Another half-hour passed (a half-hour in which Sherlock had contemplated no less than eighty-nine ways to put himself out of his misery, minus the pesky dying part), and the party at Barts was in full swing, with raucous laughter echoing throughout the halls. Costumed characters milled about happily, drinks in hand, with several people taking advantage of the makeshift dance floor, gyrating to the latest pop hits piped in through the speakers.

Mycroft had long since left his side, seeking out Lestrade, who was dressed as Tweedledee (or was it Tweedledum? who cares, irrelevant), on the other side of the room. Across the dance floor, he caught a glimpse of Molly Hooper, smiling brightly in her blue pinafore and long blonde wig. She waved emphatically at him. He nodded in return, surprised to note that the smile that crossed his face was genuine. He was also surprised to discover that even though he was feeling a bit out of place without John at his side, deep down he was glad he came. The happiness in Molly's face touched him briefly. Interesting. John's way of thinking was definitely growing on him. He relaxed and took another swallow of his martini. Doctor's orders.

"Hello, freak. Where's the good doctor?"

Sherlock groaned inwardly, not even attempting a smile. Sally Donovan was dressed in an old woman's gray wig, complete with horn-rimmed glasses and what had to be the dowdiest frock Sherlock had ever laid eyes on. Anderson stood next to her, grinning like an idiot in a ridiculously hairy dog suit.

This time Sherlock smiled coldly. "Old Mother Hubbard, is it? The dog still giving you the bone then, Sally?"

Sally's pinched face and Anderson's deep frown pleased him greatly. Her sharp retort trailed off as her eyes swept past Sherlock.

"Good God, John Watson," she purred softly.

Sherlock's neck turned involuntarily in the direction of her gaze and a rush of blood pounded with a fierce echo in his ears, causing the rest of the world to fall away as he ceased to breathe.

Good God, John Watson, indeed.

Captain John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers (because in that uniform he suddenly stopped being "John") entered the room, flush with command, head held high, back stiff, eyes straight ahead, their point of focus directly on Sherlock. Yes, breathing was no longer an option.

It was as if he saw no one else in the room, despite the crush of people in his way. Power radiated from the doctor, rolling off him in silent waves, its very ripple causing the crowd to part under the sheer force of his presence. Donovan and Anderson must have felt it; they suddenly found somewhere else to be as John made his way with great purpose toward Sherlock. A hush had fallen, discreet whispers filtering through the air, the same questioning surprise as Donovan (Is that Dr. Watson?) on their minds, but Sherlock could hear nothing over the thunderous pounding of his heart.

John stopped directly in front of Sherlock, peering up into his lover's stunned visage. The doctor's eyebrow rose slightly, compelling Sherlock to lower his head to John's face. That face. That tanned, focused, demanding face. John's voice was authority personified as he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"Captain John Watson reporting for duty, as requested." John's warm breath was a moist tickle in his ear that shot electricity straight to his groin. "And don't get any ideas, 007. As a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, I still outrank you."

Sherlock finally remembered to breathe. "Yes, sir."

John's eyes sparkled, but he did not smile. "Captain will do," he said firmly.

Sherlock's eyes flitted over John, drinking him in. Broad, muscular shoulders Sherlock knew so well were defined by the outline of the black coat, resplendent with its blood-red lapels, the light glinting off the medals pinned to John's breast. The white waistcoat underneath tapered daringly, slimming John's waist and hips to a near point (a very dangerous point), leading his gaze downward to expertly tailored black trousers. Trousers pulled oh-so-snugly across a pair of rock-hard thighs Sherlock had long appreciated. God, there were rooms in the Mind Palace dedicated to those thighs.

Desire was instant and he sighed, "'O Captain, my Captain'."

The corners of John's mouth quirked. "And don't you forget it. You're under my command this evening, Sherlock."

His brain struggled to function at the delicious thought, which brought all sorts of tantalizing words to mind. Command. Demand. Domination. Obedience. Submission. Sherlock's mouth went dry. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, we're off to a fine start, aren't we?"

Sherlock could only nod, unable to piece together coherent thought.

"Good," John whispered. "Now, here are your orders. You are going to smile and you are going to mingle. You are going to be polite and engaging to everyone. Everyone, Sherlock. You will spend this night being the absolute pinnacle of social grace, all the while keeping in the back of your brilliant little mind that at some point in the evening, you will be rewarded for your obedience and I will ride that tight arse of yours across the fucking Channel and back, and there's not a damned thing you can say about it, except 'Oh God, Captain, yes please'. Are we clear?" John pulled back with a devious glint in his eye. "I didn't hear you, Sherlock? Are. We. Clear?"

"Crystal, Captain," he choked.

John's dark smile slid across his face like a snake. "Excellent. Now," he sighed, linking arms with Sherlock, "shall we?"


	3. Fancy Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Last chapter. If you're not interested reading about Dom!John, then you're in the wrong place, with time already invested if you made it here. LOL. As always, please R&R. Concrit welcome more than you know.

Over the better course of the evening, there were two things Sherlock knew with absolute certainty.

One, he had successfully discovered twenty-two ways to conceal a raging erection in a room full of people. And two, John Hamish Watson was the devil incarnate. It was also noteworthy to mention that the former was directly related to the latter in ways he was only beginning to comprehend.

The glittering look in John's eyes had him cooperating all night as he obeyed John's order, smiling with as much genuine emotion as he could possibly muster (which in itself was probably considered a miracle in some religious circles), and chatting up anyone who would stick around long enough to talk to him. He flattered, he cajoled, he laughed, he twinkled; in short, he played the part perfectly. And each time his eyes met John's, those damnable sparkling sapphire eyes, they glowed with approval. Then they immediately dropped to his crotch and John's lips, dear God those lips, broke wide in dark satisfaction, the captain knowing exactly what the heated stare was doing to his body. It was, to be frank, deeply unfair. Yes, totally unfair. Deliciously, erotically, and sweet Jesus (suddenly Sherlock was relying heavily on a belief in a higher power) when-can-we-play-like-this-again unfair.

And to make matters worse, John kept touching him. Not that John didn't touch him normally in social situations, but tonight all the little brushes and passes meant something different entirely. The unspoken language of direction and obedience, and Sherlock was a quick study.

A quick catch up with Mrs. Hudson elicited marvelous fingers sliding down his sleeve, so gently and with so much heat. Offer her punch, Sherlock.

In chatting with Molly, there was a definite press to his back. Be nice. Say something flattering, Sherlock.

Sharing a laugh with Donovan and Anderson, there was a gentle tug on his fingers. Behave. Smile. Painful squeeze. Like you mean it, Sherlock.

Recanting a particularly grand case with Mycroft and Lestrade, it was the subtle slide of a hand down the back of his trousers. Good, Sherlock.

And because John could, the covert and sizzling grope of his arse. Very, very good, Sherlock.

The straining bulge against the fabric of his trousers was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable and harder to hide. Strangely, the feeling was intoxicating and he found himself going out of his way to attract more and more of the little touches that meant John was pleased. He wanted to please John, really please him. Not just concede to John's wishes, but to obey. Wholeheartedly. Without reservation. A startling discovery, to say the least.

All it seemed to take was one look at John in that fitted black uniform and hear the firm command in his voice and Sherlock would have happily sold his soul to the devil (provided of course that the devil was indeed John Watson) in the fraction of a heartbeat.

And then of course, there was the thinking. The other part of the cock-inflating order. Thinking about John having him at any moment did not help the matters downstairs. To be crass, it was fuck-all worse than the just the touching, because Sherlock's over-active imagination was working overtime to concoct any and all erotic possibilities involving Naked Captain and Naked Sherlock.

The touching was simple, understood. Easy to deduce. Sherlock's brain was on fire from the damned thinking, four-alarming any deviant permutation of sex and John, pumping heat directly to his cock. It was destroying him to stay calm, to keep JesusfuckingChrist (oh, we're back to religion) smiling, when what he really wanted was for John to bend him over the nearest surface and shag the ever-loving shit (evaluate relationship of profanity and sexual frustration later) out of him.

Long minutes ticked by, interminably slow, and the waiting was driving him mad. John kept up with the incessant touching, the gaps between each press of fingers, each brush of skin becoming more frequent and more prolonged, sending Sherlock's nervous system into sensory overload.

He was wired, taut with electricity, his body humming like he'd been smacked with a tuning fork. He continued smiling through gritted teeth, fighting hard to keep his cool. Breathing evenly was now a feat of willpower, the simple act of inhale and exhale becoming an exercise in futility.

A fine sheen of sweat misted his brow when finally (thank you God, finally) John locked warm fingers with his trembling ones. He almost passed out with relief. John was still rigidly straight, not a hair out of place, not a crinkle in that damnably hot uniform, looking completely unruffled by all this touching business, eyes full of approval. He wanted to weep for joy. The waiting was over.

He felt John slip something into his hand and cast a brief downward glance. Molly's key card. John must have lifted it off her (Oh John, how you do learn) at some point during the evening. He tucked it discreetly in his pocket and found John's eyes, which demanded Sherlock bring his head down again.

"I want you naked in the lab. You have five minutes. Do not disappoint me."

Sherlock didn't cast a look back as he rushed out, counting down the seconds in his head. It took him forty-five seconds to make it to the lab, five to fish out and swipe the key card (blasted tiny pockets, fuck you very much Ralph Lauren), leaving the door open an fraction of an inch, and fifty-six seconds to shed the tuxedo (can't imagine why the fingers have stopped working now) dropping pieces of it on the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs leading from the door to Naked Sherlock, braced against the empty lab table.

He trembled in the low light of the room, from the cold, the anticipation, or the need, he wasn't sure which, and honestly, didn't care. At last, the counter in his head ticked to five (hallelujah!) and his eyes were glued to the door as it slowly creaked open. John entered in silence, shutting the door behind him, the electronic lock clicking with a snap. He leaned back against the door casually, sliding his hands into the pocket of his trousers, as if he had all the time in the world, as if Sherlock naked, quaking with want, on the other side of the room were just a passing occurrence and of no considerable import at all.

But John's face told another story. A story that drew you in, captivated you, held you so tightly there was nothing you could do to escape. Every tale in history that exuded the drawing pull of raw sexual power could be read right there in the lines of John's perfect face, could be read by Braille if you only passed your fingers over the line of his jaw, the hollow of his cheek, or the arch of his brow. John's blue eyes roved over Sherlock's body in frank appreciation, and the only indication of his arousal Sherlock could discern was the flutter of his eyelids over dilated pupils.

"God, Sherlock, why haven't we done this before?" he said roughly. Sherlock didn't answer, couldn't answer, now that steady breathing had left him altogether and gone careening out the window, air filling his lungs in short, ragged whuffs.

John moved, his mirror-shiny shoes making no sound as he strolled confidently across the room, deftly sidestepping the remnants of Sherlock's tuxedo without looking.

Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from John as he came closer, savoring the rush of warmth as he stood directly in front of him. Slowly, achingly, John brushed a hand against Sherlock's chest, fingers trailing along the lean planes of muscle and sinew, drawing a deep moan from the consulting detective. His head fell back and his eyes slammed shut as he gave in to John's long-awaited caress.

A second hand joined in, touching and teasing, skating across his nipples, tweaking them into hard nubs, down to the flat plane of his abdomen. The seeking appendages moved lower still, fingers tangling through the soft thatch of curls, yet skirting expertly around Sherlock's strained erection. Sherlock's hips bucked wildly, trying to establish contact, waiting to feel the pressure of John's wonderful hands on his cock.

John hissed in protest, hands retreating to hold him down against the table, fingernails biting into his hips. He stifled a rough cry and stilled.

"Sherlock," John tutted. "And you were doing so well. What a shame." The fingers tightened painfully and John slowly lowered to his knees, his hot, moist breath inches away. It felt like miles. John released him only long enough to shrug off coat, waistcoat, tie and shirt and then the unmerciful fingers returned, digging deeper into his skin. Another moan slipped out and he looked down, noticing the bright crimson seep of blood from the crescent-shaped impressions around his scored flesh. The sting was fleeting and forgotten completely as John swallowed him whole in one long draw.

The deep, feral sound that erupted from his throat was like nothing he had heard before, and if his body hadn't vibrated with it, he wouldn't have believed it came from his mouth. He felt John's lips curve into a smile as he slowly backed off, letting Sherlock's cock fall loose with an erotic plop.

"Your voice, Sherlock. I never knew a baritone could become a sex aid." His sandy head moved to nuzzle softly at his crotch, licking and nibbling at the underside of the shaft, fingers curling into his hips again, creating little earthquakes of pain and pleasure. Sherlock couldn't contain all the groaning and whimpering caused by the searing wet warmth of John's mouth. "That's it, Sherlock. Just keep moaning. I want to hear that beautiful voice gasp and scream when I take you."

John latched on again and Sherlock gave him the guttural moan he wanted. He was rewarded with an inordinate amount of suction while John's tongue turned in hot, sweeping passes over the sensitive tip. One hand released the hold on his hip, moving lower to his balls, cupping and kneading, then becoming more forceful, gripping and squeezing in time to the applied pressure of John's talented mouth.

Sherlock's fingers gripped the table until he thought they would break, the hard line of the edge digging into his lower back. Everything was swirling together in vivid bright colors, then flashes of black, intensifying the dichotomy of pleasure and pain as John sucked with relentless fervor.

He cried out as John let go suddenly, flipping him around to face the table.

"Enough of that," John hissed, sliding his hand up Sherlock's back. The buckle of John's belt was cold and pointy, a searing contrast to the hard warmth of the good doctor's chest. Arms wrapped around his middle, palms flattening themselves against his front, moving with a deliberate friction Sherlock knew was calculated to drive him insane. It was working.

John's lips and teeth roamed the expanse of his back, rubbing and licking, his tongue darting out to trace the line of one shoulder blade. He groaned and pressed back, loving the feel of John's hot mouth on his skin. Hands moved faster, separating, one up, one down, until John's right hand found the base of his cock, while the left snaked up to close around Sherlock's neck, squeezing.

Sherlock's eyes opened wide, startled for a moment, the twinge of panic instinctual. He snorted out heavily through his nose and willed himself to relax, letting his mind remember that this was John. Everything was okay. In fact, it was fucking more than okay, it was a little forbidden, a little dangerous, and certainly hot as fuck.

John chuckled in his ear, "You like that don't you?" Teeth closed over an earlobe and Sherlock jumped, forcing his cock deeper into John's hand. "I've got you right where I want you and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it, right?" He squeezed both hands simultaneously. "Got you right in the palm of my hand, Sherlock." Sherlock gasped as John bit down hard at the hollow of his neck, applying a deep, sucking pressure that shot a blast wave of fire to Sherlock's cock, so heavy and dripping with need. The hand released his neck and threaded through his hair.

Sherlock blew out a long, shaky breath. "Yes, sir."

Angry fingers locked in his curls and snapped his head back, making him gasp. John's mouth popped off his neck. "Captain," John said sternly in his ear. One more punishing bite to the earlobe. The hard pull on his scalp was unrelenting, as was the tight fist around his cock.

"Yes…Captain." It was a whisper.

The dark laugh was back in his ear and the pressure on his hair eased. "That's much better, Sherlock. Much better."

He could feel the erect length of John's cock tenting through his trousers and John rubbed his hips seductively, the friction rough and insistent. John's hand let go of his cock and in a move so swift Sherlock never saw it coming, pressed it down against his back and slammed him face first into the table, nearly snapping him in two.

It was John who groaned this time, the husky sound drowning out Sherlock's surprised cry as his chest and cheek hit the table. He felt John's hand stroke his back with slow reverence, tracing every line and curve of his spine as he droned, "Christ, Sherlock. You're so bloody gorgeous. I just can't help myself." John moaned again as he ground his erection into the line of Sherlock's arse. "I want to break you. I just want to tear you apart with my bare hands."

Sherlock gasped, "Yes, Captain!"

The hand left his back and he felt John fumble with the belt buckle. A clink and a swoosh later, John's trousers hit the floor. Suddenly, John's cock was there, pressing greedily into the cleft of his arse, worming its way ever closer to Sherlock's waiting orifice.

The hard slap to his backside caught Sherlock off guard and he grunted loudly. Another hard slap, this time to the other side, had him panting with all his might. The sensation was incredible as his buttocks grew warm with the rush of blood.

"Another, Sherlock?"

"Please!"

John pulled on his hair and slammed his face down again, agony and a creeping flush spreading through his cheekbone.

"Captain!" John growled.

"Please, Captain!" Sherlock yelled.

One more blissfully scoring slap.

Oh my God fuck yes please Captain may I have another? The words ran together as they turned dizzying circles in his brain, but all he could manage was an impassioned cry of unintelligible groans.

The blows rained down, fiercely alternating from side to side in a desperate rhythm and his cock responded, growing and twitching, his balls beginning to tighten against the blazing rush of desire.

In one quick movement, John was off him, kneeling at his backside, kneading the globes of his arse with both hands, spreading the cheeks wide. John pressed his face at the entrance, attacking it with lips and teeth in a fury, tongue trailing wetly across the crevasse.

Sherlock screamed, a high-pitched wail as John's teeth clamped down hard on one fleshy orb, biting down with a force he didn't think possible. He bucked and writhed against the assault, but John's paid it no mind, continuing to bite and suck the abused area with relish. He heard the wet sound of a mouth sucking on fingers and then there were two of John's lovely digits forcing their way inside.

"Oh, yes, Captain, please!" Sherlock whined, raising his hips in blatant invitation.

John's tongue joined the fray, licking and probing, preparing Sherlock for the onslaught to come. His lower half was flooded in tendrils of snaking heat, the wanton combination of bites, licks, sucks, and stabbing glorious in their frenzy.

The two fingers scissored back and forth in maddening cadence and then there were three, filling and stretching.

John stood, planting his hands firmly on Sherlock's hips for purchase, then he leaned down and bit Sherlock's ear once more. "Brace yourself, Sherlock. I'm about to advance."

"Yes, Captain. Fuck me, Captain!" Sherlock repeated over and over as John centered himself.

With one long push he thrust home, impaling Sherlock with his hard length, pinning him to the table. Again their hoarse cries mingled in the air as John drove balls deep into the consulting detective. He slipped roughly past the hard ring of muscle and began to piston his hips at breakneck speed. All Sherlock could do was groan as John fucked him good, rocking back on his heels to increase the momentum and the pressure, ensuring the stimulation of Sherlock's prostate at every stroke.

"You're so tight for me, Sherlock. So wonderfully tight." John's hand found Sherlock's cock, twitting and pulling on the aching member with perfectly timed precision.

Sherlock's arms shot out in front of him and his fingers curled around the edge of the table, bracing himself. Just as instructed. The thought did not escape him, even through the hazy fog of his pleasure-addled brain.

John pushed harder, managing to speak through gritted teeth, punctuating each word with a devilish thrust. "You. Are. Mine. Do you hear me, Sherlock? You. Are. Mine."

The wicked admission shot through him like quicksilver, spreading like wildfire in his blood. With each solid slam into his body, each pull on his cock, Sherlock was hopelessly lost.

"Yours, Captain. Always!" he gasped. He felt the orgasm building, hot and sweet and so long overdue, tingling at the base of spine, growing heavy in his cock and balls. He howled, waiting for the electric mist that would envelop his body and brain. Wanted it. Needed it. It was there, right on the edge of consciousness, just waiting, waiting for one more thing before everything could fall together.

John bucked faster, riding him deeper, burying himself as far as he could go. "Come!" he shouted. "Come for me!"

And that was it. The last piece of the puzzle, the permission Sherlock needed, and he let go, his cock exploding in blessed release.

"Oh, Captain!" he groaned.

"Yes, Sherlock, fuck yes!" Three more pushes and John was with him, climaxing in body-quaking tremors, spilling himself into Sherlock with a snarling growl. John collapsed on top of him in a sweaty huff, taking a moment before pulling out.

Sherlock eased himself up, wincing at the ache in his back and shoulders, but shot an arm out and grabbed John to spin him around and capture his mouth in a kiss. John tensed, but relented, melting into the taller man. The game was over. For now.

They commenced with the clean up and dressed in silence, and Sherlock was damned to notice he was getting all fluttery again as John buttoned up that blasted uniform.

"Well, that was…something," John breathed. "I'm feeling kind of proud. Didn't know I had that in me," he half-laughed. "Rather enjoyed that."

"Indeed. I think I may have to relinquish the riding crop to you," Sherlock smirked.

John's face sobered and he reached up to rub the pad of his thumb across Sherlock's bottom lip. "I love seeing you like this," he murmured. "All shaken and bleary-eyed. Your eyes are like grey ghosts." He smiled. "So lovely. So debauched. God, but I love you."

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him tenderly, softly. The whole of emotion transferred through one little press of lips. "I love you, too." He let go and retrieved his jacket. "But I'm afraid you may need to find something else to wear to our civil ceremony."

"Why's that?" John frowned. "I earned this damn suit. And God help me, I've earned this, putting up with you as long as I have."

Sherlock grinned. "You did. But if you wear that again, we'd never make it out of the flat. And people would be disappointed if we missed our own wedding because I was too busy begging you to shag me and you were too busy obliging me."

John laughed. "You may have a point."

Sherlock pulled John back into his arms. "We'll have Mycroft buy you a new tuxedo. I may possibly be able to keep my hands off you until we're all nice and legal, but I can't make any promises once it's all done."

John smiled. "Sounds like a plan."


End file.
